were so rough and muddy (which they are). And we found two of her
books with her name written in, and she had put "Henry," and Rupert
wrote Etta after it, and "Monkey" after that. So she tore the leaves
out. Her hair was always coming out of curl. It was very dark, and
when it fell into her eyes she used to give her head a peculiar shake
and toss, so that half of it fell the wrong way, and there was a
parting at the side, like our partings. Nothing made Rupert angrier
than this.

Henrietta was very good at inventing things. Once she invented a
charade quite like a story. Rupert was very much pleased with it,
because he was to act the hero, who was to be a young cavalier of a
very old family--our family. He was to arrive at an inn; Henrietta
made it the real old inn in the middle of the town, and I was the
innkeeper, with Henrietta's pillow to make me fat, and one of Nurse's
clean aprons. Then he was to ask to spend a night in the old Castle,
and Henrietta made that the real Castle, which was about nine miles
off, and which belonged to our cousin, though he never spoke to us.
And a ghost was to appear. The ghost of the ancestor in the miniature
in Mother's bedroom. Henrietta did the ghost in a white sheet; and
with her hair combed, and burnt-cork moustache, she looked so exactly
like the picture that Rupert started when she came in, and stared;
and Mother said he had acted splendidly.

Henrietta was wonderfully like the picture. Much more like than Rupert
ever was, which rather vexed him, because that ancestor was one of the
very bravest, and his name was Rupert. He was rather vexed, too, when
she rode the pony bare-backed which had kicked him off. But I think
the pony was fonder of Henrietta, which perhaps made it easier for her
to manage it. She used to feed it with bits of bread. It got them out